God Help Me
by Gamma Orionis
Summary: John was wary when Elizabeth suggested taking on the niece of Reverend Parris to help her in the house, but he finds himself growing fond of the girl. He might even go so far as to say that it seems very much as though she is intentionally nurturing his affections… John/Abigail. Written for the het-bigbang on LiveJournal.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Written for the het_bigbang on LiveJournal. This is also officially the first thing I've written entirely in a fandom that isn't Harry Potter. Go me.

Accompanying fanmix by tree: archiveofourown**DOT**org/collections/Het_Big_Little_Bang_2012/works/494500

)O(

It was a dull sort of day, rainy and dreary as so much of the year had been, when Elizabeth Proctor decided to broach the subject of hiring someone to help around the house to her husband. They were sitting quietly in their kitchen, the only sound the low crackling of the fire, and John winced a bit when his wife spoke up. He cared not for hearing her speak.

"I need someone to help me, John," Elizabeth told him. She sounded quite exhausted – and more than that, she sounded like a woman who had lost the will to go on. "I cannot raise two sons and keep a good Christian house without help."

"Who do you expect to help you?" John asked, and tiredness crept into his own voice. He put his hand against his forehead, taking deep breaths to stop any anger that was bubbling in him. "Is there a girl you have in mind?"

"Reverend Parris has a niece…" Elizabeth began tentatively. "Now don't be angry, John, I know what you think of Reverend Parris, but she is not yet employed, and I do feel sorry for the girl." She twisted her hands in her lap a little and lowered her voice. "I heard tell in Salem that her parents were killed by Indians. It would be charitable of us to take her in, do you not think?"

John made a soft grunting noise, indicating general assent. Elizabeth bit on her lip and fidgeted, clearly put off by his reaction.

"I do not mean to anger you, John," she whispered. "If you do not want a relation of Reverend Parris in our home…"

"No," he said, a touch more sharply than he had meant. "If you need help, then it would be wrong of me to deny you."

Elizabeth let out a wavering breath. "I do not mean to displease you, John."

"You do not displease me."

She rose to her feet and pushed back from the table and moving to the pot that hung over the fire, stirring it listlessly. John watched her with mixed affection and irritation – affection because _damn it all_, she was his wife, and a good woman, and irritation because he could not begin to comprehend why of all people, she would want kin of Reverend Parris in her home. He had always thought that she shared his sentiments about the man – clearly not so.

But she was still his wife, and he meant to please her.

"I shall go into Salem tomorrow and fetch her," he said, rather grudgingly. "If she accepts the post, then all the better, and if she does not…"

"If she does not?" Elizabeth turned from the pot, looking at him with a careful expression.

He sighed.

"If she does not, promise me that you will hire another girl – any girl but Betty Parris."

She nodded gravely. "I promise, John," she told him, and he believed her, for his wife would never tell a lie, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

It took all of John Proctor's strength of will to damp down his pride and knock upon the door of Reverend Parris's house. He avoided the place at all costs and had since Parris had become minister, and there was a small and fanciful part of his mind – a part that he often managed to ignore, for fancies were ungodly – that imagined the house to be filled with riches; gold candlesticks and fine furniture, all draped in rich fabric, with women lounging about in states of undress, never mind that Parris had a small daughter and, if what Elizabeth had heard was true, also a niece of some tender age.

He clenched his jaw and rapped firmly on the door with one fist.

It swung open almost immediately, and for a moment, John reeled, thinking that perhaps his fantastical imaginings were not quite so inaccurate, for the door was answered not by Reverend Parris, or by his daughter Betty (who, despite her father's desecration of the church, was still young and innocent), but by a tall girl, no doubt in her late teen years, with her hair loose around her shoulders. She quickly raised a hand to touch it self-consciously.

"I am sorry, sir," she told him, stroking it back. "I was not expecting company, and I did not think to cover my hair…"

By the time she had said all this, John had recovered from his initial surprise at finding a woman who looked as this woman did in the Reverend's house, and guessed who she might be.

"Reverend Parris's niece, I presume?"

"That is correct," she said. "My name is Abigail Williams. My uncle is absorbed in prayer and could not answer the door…"

_Absorbed in counting his money, more likely than not_.

"But if you wish to come inside, then you may speak to him when he is finished."

"Thank you," John said, inclining his head slightly. The girl – woman – Abigail Williams – stepped aside, holding the door open for him, and he stepped inside.

The Reverend's house was sparsely furnished, which was a relief – it was not so very different from John's own, save that the Bible was rather more prominently displayed, on a large stand something like an alter.

"Would you care for a drink?" Abigail asked, indicating for him to sit at the table. "Water, tea, cider?" She caught John's slight frown, and quickly added, "The Bible tells us that hospitality is a virtue."

"No, thank you," he told her, though he could only think that the serving of cider was something that a wife was to do – not a girl welcoming a man into her house for the first time.

She nodded, then murmured, "Won't you excuse me?" and stepped out of sight behind the stairs that John could only assume led up to the bedrooms, returning moments later with her hair neatly tucked beneath a kerchief – a sign of modesty that relieved him.

"Now," she said, seating herself gracefully at the table, far too close to him for proper comfort, "Do tell me, sir… what is your business here? I think that I do not recognize you from Meeting…"

"You would not," John said a little shortly, displeased to be reminded of Meeting and hoping that this girl did not intend to chastise him for failing to attend. "I do not often go to Meeting. I do not live in Salem, you see, but some distance outside the town, and my wife is sickly."

"Your wife?" Perhaps it was John's imagination, but he thought that he saw Abigail's lips twitch down, as though in displeasure at the thought. "I thought not that you had a wife, sir – you seem too young."

John managed a laugh. "Not so, Miss. I am certainly old enough to have a wife. And you should not speak that way to a man that you scarcely know," he added, the smile slipping off his face, to be replaced by a deeply serious look that Abigail matched perfectly.

"Oh, I do apologize, sir," she told him solemnly. "I did not intend to be too forward – I am not long in this town, you see, and not yet accustomed to the formality that is so common here."

"You must learn quickly, with Reverend Parris for a guardian." John could hear a note of mistrustful bitterness in his own voice, and he fancied that perhaps Abigail could detect it as well, though even Elizabeth had never truly noticed how deeply John disliked their reverend, and this Abigail could be no cleverer than Elizabeth.

"I must," Abigail said slowly. "But then, I have so long been told that I am a wild thing, that I have perhaps come to believe it myself, and now I find very little reason to believe differently." She paused a moment, turning and gazing at one of the small, shuttered windows that lined the room, then looked back at John, a polite smile curving her lips. "But then, I am sure that you have not come into the town to hear a silly girl speak so. If you do not come to Salem even for Meeting, then surely this must be of great importance…"

"Not so important," he told her slowly. "It concerns you more than your uncle."

"Me, sir?" Abigail's eyes widened, and John thought that perhaps he saw a flicker of fear within them, though he could not imagine what the girl could be afraid of. "What of me?"

John breathed deeply, for he loathed that he was speaking to a member of Reverend Parris's family of personal matters, but he said, "My wife requires someone to help her. She is sickly, as I have said, and it would be of great benefit to her to have a young and hearty girl to help her…"

"Aye…" Abigail nodded slowly. "Many people find that young and hearty girls are of use to them…"

"You will take the position, then?" asked John. His heart leapt – could it be that he would not have to speak to Parris at all? He could go home to Elizabeth and not have to pretend to care for a word out of their Reverend's mouth.

"Yes, sir," said Abigail, nodding. "My uncle has been most eager for me to find work – he shall be pleased."

_Not that you are working for me, I daresay_, John thought, but he kept his mouth closed and nodded. "Good. I am glad."

"When shall I start work?" asked Abigail. She tilted her head and a lock of hair escaped her kerchief, slipping down her forehead and hanging beside her eyes. She tucked it up again quickly, and John found himself unable to speak until the curl was hidden once more.

"Oh- Monday," he said, not paying very much attention. "After the day of rest, you know…"

"Yes, naturally."

"Shall I come into town to fetch you?" he asked, and something low in his stomach tightened – surely it was quite wrong for him to hope so fervently that she would say yes. _So much more work for you, John – you ought to be hoping that she will say no and save you the difficulty!_

"That would be very kind of you," Abigail told him politely. "I would be most grateful."

"Ah- good." He nodded, trying to look as grave as he should have been feeling. "I shall come into the town at dawn on Monday and take you to my home, then."

"What is this?"

John winced very slightly and turned, looking to Reverend Parris, who had just stepped into the room. He had a Bible clutched in one hand and a very suspicious look on his face.

"Reverend," said John, through clenched teeth, looking up at him and forcing a very stiff smile. "I have been speaking to your niece–"

"That much is clear," Reverend Parris said, looking back and forth between Abigail and John. A muscle twitched in the side of his mouth, and John glanced at Abigail, who was looking at her uncle with an expression of absolute unconcern. She did not look as though she feared him in the slightest, and _everyone_ feared _something_ about Reverend Parris.

"He has offered me work, Uncle," said Abigail. "His wife requires a girl to help her, and Mr. Proctor has offered me the position."

"Ah…" The look of suspicion in Reverend Parris's eyes faded slightly, and he nodded. "Good, then. That is good. My thanks, Mr. Proctor – it is so difficult to find work for a young lady who did not grow up in the village…"

"You are most welcome," John told him, now barely able to speak, for the way in which he was grinding his teeth together. "Then, I shall be here on Monday to fetch her."

"Yes, of course." Reverend Parris was smiling a very stiff smile, clearly eager for John to leave.

"Thank you for offering me work, sir," said Abigail, all sweetness, and John turned and all but stalked out, leaving Parris to talk to his niece.

As he shut the door, he heard him say something that sounded very like _Improper behaviour, Abigail._ John froze momentarily, and heard Abigail say something in a tone that John doubted that Reverend Parris would have tolerated from anyone not family, but strain as John did, he could not make out her words.

"…Nothing, Uncle…" was all he could hear.

He sighed, then shook himself, wondering what was possessing him to be so interested in any member of Parris's family that he would resort to listening at doors. _That is most childish of you, John Proctor._

But as he climbed back up onto the cart that he had hitched to the pole outside the Reverend's house and flicked the reigns, as the horse drew away from the building, John could not help picturing that loose strand of hair that had fallen so sweetly across Abigail Williams' forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

"Is something the matter, John?" Elizabeth asked, when he returned, a thin sheen of sweat upon his forehead from the sun, and a frown upon his face from the thoughts of Parris's niece that had plagued him.

"No," he said automatically. "Abigail Williams–"

"Abigail Williams?" Elizabeth cut him off, her mouth twisting into an odd little frown. "Who is Abigail Williams, John? I thought that you were going to see Reverend Parris about his niece."

"His niece is Abigail Williams," John told her. "She will work for you."

He turned away, walking over to the fireplace and gazing into Elizabeth's cooking pot. Thin broth boiled in it, a sheen of grease upon the top and a few kernels of corn bobbing in it. The broth itself was pale and transparent, with only a slightly brown colour visible in the foam.

It looked distinctly unappetizing.

John picked up a spoon from where Elizabeth kept it hanging at the side of the fireplace and stirred slowly, watching the kernels shift around in the liquid. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Elizabeth watching him nervously.

With a small sigh, he looked back at the pot and raised the spoon to his lips, taking a small sip. It was near flavourless.

As was everything that they ate.

"It needs a pinch more salt, I think," he said, hanging the spoon back up.

_All the spices eaten by every heathen in India couldn't give broth a flavour in this house,_ he thought, but smiled as Elizabeth fetched the salt box and threw a pinch in. It would make little difference, he expected, but he took a bit more and tasted once again and congratulated his wife.

"Perhaps next time you are in the village, you could buy some meat," Elizabeth suggested tentatively. "I think our food is much plainer when we haven't any."

"I'll buy some on Monday, when I fetch Abigail," John told her. He trailed off when he saw Elizabeth turn away. "Is something amiss here, Elizabeth?"

"Why can her uncle not bring her?" asked Elizabeth quietly. "Or she could come by herself – a strong girl can walk from Salem to our house in little over an hour. I see not why you should fetch her."

"Does it matter? I will go before dawn, you will not even know…"

Elizabeth shot him the coldest look that he had ever received from her, or from anyone. Even Reverend Parris could not freeze with a look the way that Elizabeth could, and John found himself wondering what he could possibly have said to offend her so desperately.

"It matters very much, John," she snapped. "The very fact that I will not know matters. Do you aim to keep secrets from me, John?"

"No!" He jolted back, offended. "I have no secrets from you! What secrets do you suspect me to be keeping?"

Silence hung in the air, and then Benjamin scrambled in, crying, with a scraped knee, and Elizabeth turned her attentions to him. John watched, mute, as his wife helped his son into a chair and rolled up his breeches that she might attend to the scrape.

She kept her eyes pointedly averted from John, even as he went around to stand beside Benjamin and tell him that he would heal before he knew it, and John bristled. He did not care for his wife's expression, her coldness or the way she looked at him as though she thought that he was a liar.

_She should know me better than that._

But John said nothing. Not in the presence of their son.

Elizabeth scarcely touched him when they went to bed that night, instead lying as far from him upon their thin and narrow mattress as she could. When John tried to touch her, to draw her closer to him, she only stiffened and pushed his hands away.

"I am tired, John."

"You are always tired!" He did not bother trying to keep scorn from his voice. "I work all day in the fields and you sit at home and _you_are too tired? I would think you would have the energy to please your husband, Elizabeth."

She did not speak, but she did not soften either. She turned away and left John to fume and burn with frustration.


	4. Chapter 4

John found himself oddly eager for Monday. Perhaps it was half because of the usual dull nature of Sundays that made it seem like it was taking far longer than it should have for morning to come, but the period between John's initial trip to Salem and his trip to go and fetch Abigail seemed endless.

When he rose on Monday morning, long before dawn, Elizabeth was already awake and sitting by the door, waiting for him.

"Is something wrong, Elizabeth?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said, wringing her hands slightly. "John, if you don't want to have Parris's kin in our house, then we needn't have Abigail."

"What's this?" He snorted, even as he turned away from her and picked up a piece of rye bread from the table. He shredded it slowly between his fingers, his back to his wife. "You wanted Abigail Williams – has something changed your mind?"

"I fear saying, John…"

"Fear saying what?"

She swallowed, then said in a rush, "I'm afraid, John. Something feels wrong, and the more I think of it, the more I think that the Williams girl should not be in our home. I don't know why I feel that way," she added desperately, "and I don't want you to fear some sort of- of witchcraft…" She dropped her voice to a whisper to say that word, "but I do fear her."

"Nonsense, Elizabeth. You have not so much as met the girl."

"But I _feel_ it, John."

"I will not hear this." He turned back to her, scowling sternly. "I have promised Abigail Williams work. It is the first time Reverend Parris has ever spoken civilly to me. I shall not snub him or his family for no more reason than _because you feel it_. That is madness, Elizabeth, and I will not have it!"

She looked down, twisting her hands in her lap. "Did Abigail Williams seem… seem good, John? Virtuous and proper, do you think? Was that the impression that you got of her?"

"She did seem good, yes," John said shortly. "Does that satisfy you? Will you let me go now?"

"Yes, John," Elizabeth said, as meek and mild as she had ever sounded.

"Good." He did not look back at her, but stormed out of the house, hitching up the horses while he stewed over his wife's behaviour. Asking whether Abigail Williams seemed virtuous before she had even met her – who was he, John, to judge? Why could Elizabeth not wait and judge the girl herself?

Was it possible that she suspected–

What? Was it possible that she suspected that Abigail had, in her haste to speak to her guest, been a touch careless in hiding her hair? That was no sin – she had been left to answer the door, and had surely not expected visitors, and it was nothing improper that she might have neglected to hide a single curl. There were girls and women in the village who did not hide their hair at all, except on Sundays, of course.

John climbed up onto the wagon and flicked the reigns, and his horses began to plod the familiar route to Salem, over all the potholes and uneven patches that had become so much endless road in John's mind. Dawn had barely begun to lighten the horizon, just colouring it with pale pink and violet. The road was silent save for the chirruping of crickets and one or two far-away birds.

Birds often stayed far from Salem, he had found.

Perhaps the birds that circled over the town and then flew far away were like John himself. Perhaps they, like he, could sense the wrongness that had pervaded the village since Reverend Parris took over and even before that.

John had, he would willingly admit to himself if no one else, never been a great churchgoer. He disliked the stiffness and austerity of meetings, and had been whipped too many times as a child for failing to sit perfectly still upon the hard and uncomfortable wooden benches. The whole matter had left a sour taste in his mouth. But he was a good Puritan man, and his wife a good Puritan woman, and so they had attended meeting every Sunday with utmost solemnity, calmly bearing the changing tides that came with each new minister, until Reverend Parris had taken up the post.

John's dislike for Parris had been immediate and complete. From the moment that he had laid eyes on him, he loathed him profoundly and wanted nothing to do with him, and it had come as a great relief when Elizabeth had fallen sick and John could use her illness as an excuse to avoid going into town. It meant that he had to endure glares and the occasional whispered accusation of lack of piety, but he would rather suffer that then Parris's unending sermons about the futility of life and the fires of Hell.

How Parris had come to have a niece like Abigail Williams, he did not know. He would have thought that all manner of spirit or gaiety, which Abigail seemed to embody well, if with some manner of proper restraint, would have been crushed out of the home of the Reverend.

_Perhaps Abigail is as dull as her uncle, but capable of hiding it._

John sighed, tugging slightly on his horses' reins and guiding them over a small wooden bridge on the edge of town. He could see the houses of Salem, just beginning to stir with the early morning movements – and more often than not, the prayers – of their inhabitants, and a fire already burning in Parris's house. Before John had even reached the door, it was flung open, and Abigail stood upon the step, dressed, her hair quite hidden beneath her bonnet and the widest smile that John had ever seen on a woman upon her face.

"Mr. Proctor," she said, inclining her head when she saw him, and he was aware that she was trying to wipe the smile off of her face. It took her a few moments, then she looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes slightly, and she brushed her hand over her lips, replacing her wide smile with solemnity. "Thank you for coming into the village to fetch me."

"It was no trouble," John told her, extending a hand to help her up. "And it is not safe for a young Puritan girl to be walking alone at such an hour as this…"

"Aye." Abigail nodded solemnly as she took John's hand and lifted herself gracefully onto the wagon bench at his side. "The Indians stay away from the village, but I would not be surprised to see some along this road…"

"I have never seen an Indian here," John told her, in what he hoped was a comforting voice. "I have heard that they are moving further and further away from proper human settlement. There are people who say that they have no quarrel with us…"

Abigail's face hardened instantly. The change was almost disturbing – seconds ago, she had looked as sweetly solemn as any decent young girl, and now she looked so angry that it was almost frightening.

"People who say the Indians have no quarrel with us are wrong," she snapped. "They mean us harm. They would gladly kill any good Christian man or woman who set foot on their heathen land – the only reason that we are safe in Salem is that we have guns…"

"Why say you that, Abigail?" John asked, a little warily.

Abigail fell silent and turned away from him, staring out over the village. John flicked the horses' reigns and they began to plod away from the village, but he kept his eye on Abigail. At last, once they were almost out of sight of the manse, she spoke again.

"My parents were killed by Indians," she said, and John was taken aback more by the venom in her voice than the words she spoke. Many people he knew had family members who had been killed by Indians, but when they spoke of them, it was always with semi-reverent sorrow and occasionally slight resentment. Never before had he heard such obvious _anger_, and from a girl, no less…

"I am very sorry," he told her, finding nothing else to say. Abigail did not look at him.

"You look much like my father," she whispered at last. "He had eyes like yours… kindly eyes. He was a good man, as I know you are, Mr. Proctor."

Something twisted in the pit of John's stomach.

"It is, perhaps, not proper for you to say… for you to say anything of that nature to me," he chided quietly, and Abigail whirled on the bench again to look at him.

"Of what nature?" she asked swiftly. "I simply said that you are a good man and that you remind me of my father – surely there can be no more proper thing to say than that. I tell my uncle often that he is a good man –"

"There is a familiarity in what you say that I cannot approve of," John told her, rather sharply. "It is improper to speak so- so intimately with a man such as myself… a man you barely know…"

"Oh, but sir…" She shifted towards him slightly on the bench, leaning close and looking up at him with wide and almost innocent eyes. "I did not intend to be too… intimate with you… I am sorry that you interpreted my words as such."

The horse's reigns slipped from John's hands, going slack as the horses continued to pull on them, but he was rendered quite incapable of catching them or even of fully registering that they were no longer held firmly between his fingers. The look that Abigail was giving him – that serious, solemn, oh so terribly _sweet_ look – had him transfixed.

Abigail's eyes flicked to the reigns for a moment, but then back to John, and then her hand moved to catch the leather straps before they slipped to the ground, and as she caught hold of them – never breaking eye contact – her hand brushed lightly against his knee.

"Are you ill, Mr. Proctor?" she asked, and yes, perhaps John did feel a little odd and feverish. He put his hand on his forehead, then shook his head slightly, sighing.

"Not ill," he told her. "Just… perhaps a little tired. I have not been sleeping well," he added, hoping very much that this would be excuse enough for Abigail and that she would not require any further explanation.

"I am most sorry to hear that, Mr. Proctor," Abigail said solemnly. "Perhaps you should not be working in the fields if you are in this state – I have heard tell that exhaustion can bring about all manner of illnesses… there are even those who have died early from it."

"Industriousness is a virtue," he reminded her. "To stay away from one's work for so minor an ailment would be idleness, and you surely know what is said – if the Devil finds a man's hand idle, he will set it to work."

"That is a foolish thing to believe," Abigail told him. "The Devil cannot set a man to work while the man lies abed – it is an idle_mind_ that the Devil will set to do his work."

John managed a small laugh. "Do you fancy yourself a theologian, Abigail?"

"I fancy myself nothing." Abigail's voice went rather cold, and she frowned at John, as though insulted by his question. "I only think about what I hear in Meeting and decide which portions of it are right and which are wrong."

"Be grateful you're a child still young enough for such comments to be taken as naïveté…" His lips twisted slightly and he flicked the horses' reins. "If you were any older, you would be taken for a heretic in a moment. I hope you know."

"Women are not taken as heretics," she said dismissively. "The accusation of choice is _witch_. 'Heretic' suggests an intelligence that women do not have."

"True." John looked away from her, focussing his eyes upon the horses and trying not to allow himself to look back at her, not allow himself to show how very _odd_ he found the whole conversation. He thought he heard her snort or let out a small laugh, but couldn't be sure and didn't want to look back at her to check her expression.

Abigail did not speak again until John pulled back on the reins and the cart pulled to a stop before his house.

"Thank you," she said, taking his hand and stepping down, looking with the small cottage with an expression of something like disappointment. "Oh… I did expect it to be rather larger."

"My wife and I do not feel we need more," John told her, attempting not to betray the hint of annoyance in his voice. "It is not like the manse your uncle keeps, but it is enough for us."

"Oh, you mustn't think that I was _insulting_ it," Abigail amended swiftly. "I only thought that if your wife needed help keeping it–"

Anger tightened John's throat and it was all he could do not to strike Abigail. "Do _not_ speak against my wife. She is not _lazy_, do you understand me? She does her best to keep the house. She is ill, that is why she cannot keep it as well as she might wish to."

Abigail did not respond. She looked up straight into John's face with an infuriatingly impertinent look. "Of course. Her illness excuses everything, does it not?"

"_Yes._"

"Hmm." Abigail let out a small, non-committal noise through her lips, then brushed past John, striding towards the house. She was met by Elizabeth, who opened the door and immediately stared at Abigail as though she had never seen a girl before.

"You are Abigail Williams?" she asked.

"Yes," Abigail said, bristling a little at Elizabeth's tone. "Am I not how you expected me to be? I would hope I am _satisfactory._"

"Oh, of course," Elizabeth said, softening her voice, and once again, John had an urge to strike Abigail for her impertinence. Elizabeth did not deserve to be spoken to so – by a mere girl, a girl not yet even of marriageable age.

"Do come in," continued Elizabeth. "Come… there's yeast and flour and we need bread by dinnertime."

"Yes, Goody Proctor," Abigail said, her voice instantly turning from hard to sugar-sweet. She bobbed a small curtsey that John might have thought mocking – though he put that idea out of his mind quickly – and then Abigail went inside and Elizabeth turned on John.

"Did she speak that way to you?" Elizabeth demanded in a low voice. "Or to her uncle? As if- as if she's _above_ us?"

"I think she was insulted," he said tentatively, hoping against hope that he would not anger his wife, but feeling an odd need to defend Abigail – a _very_ odd need, he thought, his stomach twisting very slightly, as he had been the one reluctant to take her on. If anything, he ought to have been telling Elizabeth _yes, Abigail was horrible to all figures of authority and did not deserve to be in their employ._

"Insulted? By what?"

"By– you were staring, I think…"

"_Staring?_"

John winced.

"I was not _staring!_ I simply looked at her, nothing more! I would think that a woman has the right to look at a girl before allowing her into her home! I wouldn't want someone who looked… _unsuitable_ to be in our employ!"

"It was not an insult, Elizabeth, I was merely trying to explain–"

"Don't." Elizabeth held up one hand and covered her eyes with the other. "I'm sorry. I've been feeling poorly all morning – go on, take the boys out to the fields, you have your work to do. We'll be fine here."

"Of course…" John leaned forward and kissed Elizabeth lightly on her forehead, and she managed a trembling smile before turning and heading back into the cottage. John looked after her for a moment, then turned away, grabbed the reins of his horses, and led them to the barn.

The motions he went through – unhitching, washing, fetching a bucket and milking the cow – were pleasantly soothing. He rested his forehead against the cow's side, letting his eyes fall shut and working her teats as he had done so many times before, in slow, practiced motions that had become second nature to him.

He ought to tell Elizabeth that he'd _told_ her that hiring on a relative of Reverend Parris had been a poor choice. He ought to tell her that it was her own fault if Abigail Williams didn't respect her authority, because _she'd_ been the one to suggest her as a candidate for the position.

And then, of course, Elizabeth would turn that right around and tell him that _he_ was the one who had hired her on officially, that_he_ was the one who had actually decided that she would be a suitable candidate – that he had even said as much to her that very morning – and that if he had thought Abigail to be impertinent or unsuitable, he should have said so and not hired her.

And if she did say that?

John did not care to think of himself as a proud man. He ought to have been able to accept that he had made an error in his judgement, that he had been wrong about Abigail Williams. Why should it bother him so deeply to admit that mistake?

_He would admit to it if things did not get better_, he promised himself. If Abigail did not learn to respect Elizabeth – or him – he would gladly admit that he made a mistake and he would be the one to tell her that she couldn't be in his employ any longer.

But it would only be fair to give her a chance – to give her a chance to prove that she could be a good worker, that she could help Elizabeth around the house and be useful.

He nodded to himself, as though sealing a secret pact with his own mind, then stood up, milking pail in his hand, and started for the cottage again. He listened for a moment before opening the door, and when he heard no sounds of fighting, stepped inside.

Elizabeth was seated at the table with her knitting, and Abigail stood over the breadboard, up to her elbows in flour and kneading a lump of dough with such vigour that, at first glance, John thought that she was beating it. When she turned to look at him, that same lock of hair that had escaped her kerchief when first he had met her was plastered against her forehead once again.

"Thank you, John," Elizabeth said, standing and taking the pail from him. "The boys are awake – I sent them outside to wait for you."

"Thank you." John was aware of a certain cold, distant tone in Elizabeth's voice, but chose to ignore it. "You two are… are fine here, are you not?"

"Of course we are, John – why wouldn't we be?"

He didn't know what answer to give to that, so he turned and left the women without another word.

The sun had already risen, casting the fields over with dull, murky light, any semblance of pure sunlight masked by fog that was not yet dissipating and clouds that hung low in the sky. John managed a tight smile in the direction of Giles Corey, who was already hacking at the rye stalks with a scythe.

"Is the crop going to be all right?" John asked, trying to put his mind off Elizabeth and Abigail and focus wholly on his work. "It's been damp – some people seem to think rye crops can be ruined by damp weather."

"That's nonsense," Giles said, not even looking up. "There's a bit of mould, I'll grant, but not enough to ruin the crop, and you can tell the mouldy stalks just by looking. We'll have bread well into the winter, I promise you."

"Some people seem to think mould on rye is dangerous," John said rather mildly, picking up his own scythe and twisting it idly in his hand, watching the sun glint off the blade. "To hear Reverend Parris tell it, it can bring the devil to whoever eats it… so it's the farmers' fault if Satan is loose in a town."

"That's nonsense though, isn't it?" Giles snorted. "A bit of mould in the food never hurt anyone, and Parris won't know unless we tell him in any case, so if we just keep our mouths shut, there won't be a problem, now will there?"

"Of course not," said John, smiling slightly as his two sons rushed out to join them. "Come on now, boys – get the wagon, we're going to start cutting the rye today."

He watched with a fondness swelling in his heart as his two sons rushed to the barn and returned moments later with the small cart for him and Giles to throw the rye stalks into. They were good boys, and they had enough of Elizabeth's patient and pious nature to excel at whatever task they were set to without complaint.

He wondered briefly what Abigail's children would be like if Elizabeth's children were like this, then he shook himself and tried to put all thoughts of Abigail procreating out of his mind.


End file.
